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Authors: Kristin Harmel
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forward and takes my hand. “Well, that looks like it hurts. Hannah, can you go get Mom a Band-Aid, please?”
Hannah nods and hurries away, and Patrick turns back to me. But I’m no longer looking at him. I’m staring at my bloodied hand. “I cut myself,” I say in awe.
“I know, sweetheart.” Patrick grabs a paper towel and gently presses it to my sliced finger. “Hold that there for a minute, okay? Does it hurt?”
But all I can do is look at the blood in awe. “I cut myself,” I repeat. If this were just a dream, cutting myself would have woken me up, right? The way that pinching yourself is supposed to?
Hannah returns to the kitchen and hands a Band-Aid to Patrick, who opens it quickly and wraps it around my finger. “There you go,” he says. “Good as new.”
“Good as new,” I echo, still staring at my hand in disbelief.
Patrick squeezes my shoulder then turns to Hannah and smiles. “All right, kiddo,” he says, grabbing a spatula from the counter and waving it around dramatically. “French toast, or bacon and eggs? Your old man’s taking orders.”
Hannah laughs, a beautiful sound, and tilts her head to the side.
Then she does something that catches me off guard. She replies to Patrick in sign language.
And what shocks me even more is that I understand it. Eggs, please, she signs. Then she glances at me and signs, What’s wrong? You’re looking at me funny.
My jaw falls. “She’s deaf,” I murmur, more to myself than to Patrick, but he looks concerned, and a shadow crosses Hannah’s face. I raise my hands to sign back, intending to say, Nothing’s wrong, Hannah. I’m sorry. But I realize suddenly that although I can understand Hannah in the dream, I have no idea how to use sign language.
I look to Patrick for help, a panicky feeling rising inside of me, but he’s already fading, as is the whole kitchen around us. “No!” I cry. “I’m not ready yet!”
“Kate?” Patrick takes a step toward me, but the light flooding in through the windows is erasing the room.
“I love you, Patrick! Tell Hannah I love her too!” I manage to say before there’s a blinding flash, and everything fades to black.
Seven
I wake up with my head spinning and my finger throbbing. It takes a few seconds before the details—Patrick’s kiss, my cut finger, Hannah’s sign language—come pouring back in. I sit up and gasp, which awakens Dan.
“What’s wrong?” he asks groggily, sitting up too. He blinks at me and his eyes widen. “Kate! What did you do to your finger?”
I look down, and my breath catches in my throat as I realize that the tip of my right pinkie, the one I cut in the dream, is sliced open and bleeding. “Oh my God,” is all I can manage.
“Let me get you a Band-Aid!” Dan is already out of bed, heading for the bathroom. “How deep is the cut? Do I need to take you to get that stitched up? How on earth did you cut yourself sleeping?”
“I’m fine,” I murmur, holding my hand up and watching the blood flow down my palm. “Aren’t I?” I add to myself.
Dan eventually stops panicking after he has applied Neosporin and a Band-Aid and has assured himself that the wound isn’t actually all that bad. I mumble an excuse about going to get a glass of water in the middle of the night and slicing it on the edgeof a knife when I reached into the dishwasher, and he seems to buy it.
After he heads out to go with his friend Stephen to a ball game, I text Gina and ask if she can meet me at the emergency room at Bellevue.
Oh my God, what’s wrong? she texts back immediately.
I hesitate before answerng. Something weird is happening to me.
She texts back a series of question marks, but when I don’t reply, she writes back, On way. U ok?
I don’t know, I reply.
I ’m waiting to see a doctor a half hour later when Gina rushes in. “Kate, what the hell?” she demands. “How could you just send me a text like that without explaining? What’s the matter? Is Susan
Hannah nods and hurries away, and Patrick turns back to me. But I’m no longer looking at him. I’m staring at my bloodied hand. “I cut myself,” I say in awe.
“I know, sweetheart.” Patrick grabs a paper towel and gently presses it to my sliced finger. “Hold that there for a minute, okay? Does it hurt?”
But all I can do is look at the blood in awe. “I cut myself,” I repeat. If this were just a dream, cutting myself would have woken me up, right? The way that pinching yourself is supposed to?
Hannah returns to the kitchen and hands a Band-Aid to Patrick, who opens it quickly and wraps it around my finger. “There you go,” he says. “Good as new.”
“Good as new,” I echo, still staring at my hand in disbelief.
Patrick squeezes my shoulder then turns to Hannah and smiles. “All right, kiddo,” he says, grabbing a spatula from the counter and waving it around dramatically. “French toast, or bacon and eggs? Your old man’s taking orders.”
Hannah laughs, a beautiful sound, and tilts her head to the side.
Then she does something that catches me off guard. She replies to Patrick in sign language.
And what shocks me even more is that I understand it. Eggs, please, she signs. Then she glances at me and signs, What’s wrong? You’re looking at me funny.
My jaw falls. “She’s deaf,” I murmur, more to myself than to Patrick, but he looks concerned, and a shadow crosses Hannah’s face. I raise my hands to sign back, intending to say, Nothing’s wrong, Hannah. I’m sorry. But I realize suddenly that although I can understand Hannah in the dream, I have no idea how to use sign language.
I look to Patrick for help, a panicky feeling rising inside of me, but he’s already fading, as is the whole kitchen around us. “No!” I cry. “I’m not ready yet!”
“Kate?” Patrick takes a step toward me, but the light flooding in through the windows is erasing the room.
“I love you, Patrick! Tell Hannah I love her too!” I manage to say before there’s a blinding flash, and everything fades to black.
Seven
I wake up with my head spinning and my finger throbbing. It takes a few seconds before the details—Patrick’s kiss, my cut finger, Hannah’s sign language—come pouring back in. I sit up and gasp, which awakens Dan.
“What’s wrong?” he asks groggily, sitting up too. He blinks at me and his eyes widen. “Kate! What did you do to your finger?”
I look down, and my breath catches in my throat as I realize that the tip of my right pinkie, the one I cut in the dream, is sliced open and bleeding. “Oh my God,” is all I can manage.
“Let me get you a Band-Aid!” Dan is already out of bed, heading for the bathroom. “How deep is the cut? Do I need to take you to get that stitched up? How on earth did you cut yourself sleeping?”
“I’m fine,” I murmur, holding my hand up and watching the blood flow down my palm. “Aren’t I?” I add to myself.
Dan eventually stops panicking after he has applied Neosporin and a Band-Aid and has assured himself that the wound isn’t actually all that bad. I mumble an excuse about going to get a glass of water in the middle of the night and slicing it on the edgeof a knife when I reached into the dishwasher, and he seems to buy it.
After he heads out to go with his friend Stephen to a ball game, I text Gina and ask if she can meet me at the emergency room at Bellevue.
Oh my God, what’s wrong? she texts back immediately.
I hesitate before answerng. Something weird is happening to me.
She texts back a series of question marks, but when I don’t reply, she writes back, On way. U ok?
I don’t know, I reply.
I ’m waiting to see a doctor a half hour later when Gina rushes in. “Kate, what the hell?” she demands. “How could you just send me a text like that without explaining? What’s the matter? Is Susan
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